


Running Out of Miracles

by PariahSentToSave



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, Fluff, Hey Jude, Humor, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Military John, POV Multiple, Psychological Torture, Smut, Therapy, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:18:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 9,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2266008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PariahSentToSave/pseuds/PariahSentToSave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes back from three years of Post-Reichenbach, but not all is as it seems. He must relearn how to feel, but so must John. Mycroft must overcome his desperation to keep Sherlock safe, while relinquishing control. Lestrade struggles with trying to save everyone. Can any of them be saved?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Call Doctor Watson

Mycroft

Sherlock frowned, his eyes fluttering open. He groaned, trying to comprehend my hushed curses. He tried to move my hand away from his throat where I was attempting to take his pulse, but he lacked the strength. When I slid my hand to his back, my other arm sweeping beneath his knees, he forced himself to focus on my face. I saw dim comprehension register in his icy, unfocused eyes. Gasping, he tried to flail and escape, but I simply shifted my grip to accommodate him. Surrendering, Sherlock hung limply, barely acknowledging my quiet murmur as I slid him head-first into the waiting car, clambering gracefully in after him, placing his legs over my own.

"Call Dr. Watson. It's him," I said, watching as Gregory Lestrade stroked Sherlock's face, brushing the tangled curls back.

"Shit," Gregory muttered. "His head's over my phone." I nodded, leaning over to lift Sherlock's head. His eyes opened as I laid it back down. Judging by Gregory's expression, the empty, dead look in Sherlock's eyes would haunt him for a long while. Shakily, he dialed Dr. Watson's number, looking away from my brother.

"John? Yeah, I know what time it is...don't even pretend you were sleeping, we both know you weren't...Yes, I've got a point...I don't know….Look, I don't know, alright?...I'm fine….Yes, he's fine, too, yes, I know you didn't actually care...John...yes...John! Shut up and listen! Thank you! You need to get to St. Bart's….The AE. I know. Believe me, I know. I'll explain later, I'm not going to say this over the phone...It will be...Yeah, see you then," Gregory sighed as he hung up. "Three years...Jesus…"

I stared out the window, my fists clenching and unclenching. Gregory brushed his fingers over Sherlock's eyelids, sliding them shut. He'd most likely see those pale, glassy orbs every time he closed his eyes. I would, without a doubt.

Shuddering, Gregory fumbled for my hand, obviously needing the comfort. His other hand stroked the tangled, greasy locks in his lap, most likely hoping Sherlock could feel and would be comforted. A small part of me hoped the same. As the car pulled up to the A&E, he moved his hands under Sherlock's shoulders to help me lift him out.

"I've got him," I said. "Go find Dr. Watson. Inform him. Keep him calmed." Gregory nodded, pushing through the waiting room. I took deep breaths as I moved through the people, allowing my brother to be taken from me and placed on a gurney only to be whisked away from me.


	2. I Wish I was Lying

Lestrade

I swallowed thickly, looking behind me to watch Mycroft place Sherlock on a gurney. Turning back ahead, I caught sight of John, my heart in my throat, tears threatening to flow down my cheeks. I waved to catch his attention as the doors closed behind me. Swallowing, I walked closer to John, the dreadful hopelessness I felt echoed in his pained eyes. I closed my own, trying to keep the tears at bay. As John approached me, he slid his hands into his pockets, no doubt balling them into fists. "Why are we here?" He asked, his voice mirroring the look I'd seem in his eyes. "You said you would stop calling. Why are we here? I opened my eyes, pulling John into an empty corridor, ignoring his heated protests.

"Remember Adler? How she faked her death?" John nodded, shrugging off my hand as I attempted to place it on his shoulder.

"Make your point, I'd like to leave," he snapped, shifting uncomfortably. I didn't blame him. It was hard for me to be here, even though I knew. It had to be killing John. "Make. Your. Point," he repeated, the words ground out between his teeth. I paused for a moment, fisting my hand as I pulled it back. "Sherlock." John opened his mouth, his expression screaming "how dare you," but I shook my head, continuing before he could cut in. "He's alive. Relatively. He-" I broke off as John took a step back, not even trying to defend myself from his flying fist.

"No," he muttered, his chest heaving. I shook my head, rubbing at the blossoming bruise on my jaw. "No. No no no. No, he wouldn't- he wouldn't do that. Not to me. No! You're lying! Sick fucking bastard, you're lying!" John shouted, tears pouring down his face. Whether they were anguished or relieved, I had no idea.

"I wish I was lying, John, I really do, I'm sorry..."

John scoffed, wiping at his eyes. "How do you know it's him?" he asked skeptically. I ran a hand through my hair with a sigh of, "His head was in my lap, John, those eyes...I'd have to be lobotomies to forget. Maybe not even then. Mycroft's sure, too." John slid down the wall, crumpling into a heap of limbs on the floor, his face hidden in shaking hands. I knelt down next to him with a frown.

"Will he be okay? He's going to live, right?" John asked, his voice beyond hopeless, beyond broken. I couldn't answer for a few minutes, not able to bear the possibility of lying to John, of being wrong.

"I don't know," I whispered. "You can probably get in to see him, Mycroft can pull the strings," I said, rubbing John's back, only to be pushed away as John stood slowly.

"How bad?" He asked cautiously, watching me warily. I shook my head, leaning against the wall. I sighed, "Myc could carry him without even breathing hard, like he weighed less than nothing. Pretty accurate, as far as I could see." I stood up straight. "He's...he looked...empty. Like there was nothing left, no will to live, like he didn't care if he's okay or not. Like he was already dead. Scariest thing I've ever seen." I paused before taking John's wrist -both of our hands shaking- and, ignoring his weak protests, led him to the intensive unit, where Mycroft paced, waiting for us. He stopped, nodding once to John before opening the door to a private room. I nudged John inside, sinking into Mycroft's arms as soon as the door closed.


	3. Don't Wake Up

John

I couldn't open my eyes. As soon as the door closed behind me, I leaned against it for balance. I took a few deep breaths before opening my eyes, clapping a hand to my mouth to smother the scream building in my throat. Immediately, pain shot from my knee to my shoulder, a harsh reminder of what it had been like coming home from the war...It was, almost, like that now...except I was coming home to a war.

It was worse that Greg had said. Before my knees could buckle, I lowered myself into the chair next to the... _living corpse_. Truly, that was the only fitting description my mind could give me as I looked at the shell of what used to be Sherlock Holmes.

He was darker, the skin tanned, even sunburned across the nose and cheekbones, but underneath the freckled tan was a sickly pallor, the undertone giving him the look of a long-dead cadaver, like he'd been sick for far too long. His eyes moved rapidly under translucent lids. An oxygen mask, complete with tube disappearing between his lips and down his throat, covered his nose and mouth. His once smooth lips were chapped enough to bleed, even now. A scar pulled slightly at the skin just to the right of his Cupid's bow. His breathing was labored, his chest rising almost imperceptibly, the miniscule motions mechanic and sharp. If not for the steady beating of the EKG, he could very well have died, and no one would notice.

I let my head drop to my hands, my breath coming in short gasps that heaved my chest painfully. It was hard to tell what I felt the most, anger, pain, or relief. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. What could I possibly say? Would it matter, could he even hear? I laughed, the sound ripping through the silence like a jackhammer. After another half-hour or so of silence, I finally spoke, my lips brushing against Sherlock's ear.

"I'm going to say this once, just once. If you're real...if I'm not dreaming...don't wake up. Don't open your eyes, for both our sakes. If you wake up, and this...and you're real, we…" I paused, my voice breaking. "We won't be okay, either of us. This isn't what I meant, it's not what I wanted, you selfish bastard. You were supposed to be fine, not dead, and not...this…"

I could feel something in me finally snap and break as I bowed my head, pulling Sherlock's skeletal hand gently to my face, pressing my lips to his cold palm.

"The mess you've made…"


	4. Then There was Nothing

Sherlock

 

It was calm. Finally, silence. I missed silence, total silence. Voices occasionally filtered through, but it was impossible to decipher them. What did it matter? Nothing. Memories were all I had now. Even those would start fading soon. I couldn't find it in myself to care. I had no idea why anyone was trying. I wanted it to fade, I wanted my world to turn to black. I willed it every second with increasing desperation. I'd had enough, couldn't they see that? This, lying in a bed, too weak to move, too tired to try, this wasn't living.

This was existing.

This was hell.

I preferred even the torture in Sudan, running and hiding in Somalia, even the illness in Romania. They'd let me be, there, they simply watched me struggle to live. There was no one touching me, my hands, my arms, my face, my hair.

There were no voices.

There was no John.

I could hear the familiar voice sometimes, when I was almost awake, almost alive. I wanted to laugh, to cry, to reach out and touch him. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to open my eyes and say something. I wanted to say anything.

What could I possibly say?

What could John possibly have to say back?

"Don't be dead."

"Don't wake up."

"Don't."

I didn't want to wake up. I didn't want to be tired, I didn't want to be weak, I didn't want to feel nothing.

I was done with feeling, too.

I was done with breathing.

I was done. I wanted to let go. I wanted them to let me let go.

I wanted them to let go, too.

I wanted to scream. Couldn't they see there was no point? I was done, I was finished, there was nothing left to save.

Nothing left of William Holmes.

Nothing left of Sherlock Holmes.

There was nothing left.

I could hear it, the noise of my salvation, the noise of my rescue, the noise of my end.

My own personal flatline.

The sound was so beautiful, more beautiful than anything I'd ever heard.

Then there was nothing.


	5. He Would Live

Mycroft

 

After what seemed like forever, Sherlock opened his eyes, the color, once vibrant and alive, now dull and broken. I sighed in relief, not having been sure they would open. I placed my hand on his chest to discourage movement. He recoiled from my touch, panic in the once-beautiful eyes that had been haunting me since I found him. I made a shushing noise, stroking through his hair like I had done when he was a child. All I could see was what he had been when he referred to himself as William, when he had been pure and happy. He was a shell now, a cold echo of Sherlock. A colder still echo of William.

"Mycroft," he hissed, his voice rough and broken. My breath caught in my throat, choking off any words that may have helped to calm either of us. Instead, I held a finger to his coarse lips, pointing to the cot against the far wall, where a huddled figure lay sleeping. "John," William breathed, unable to mask the raw pain in his voice. He tried to move again, crying out as I pressed on his shoulder to still him.

"Apologies, Will," I whispered, going back to carding my hand through his hair, "but you're not to be up and moving. Is there something you need?" I asked, uncomfortable with the situation. It was too close to the first time I had found my brother after an overdose. For a moment, all I could see was a seventeen year old with fear in his eyes and hate in his heart.

Stop. No.

All lives end.

All hearts are broken.

Even my own, especially my own.

Remembering the pain of the past will not help the future.

"Heroin."

My heart dropped like a detached lift, though this is what I had expected. I had hoped with little effort that it would be different, but there was no point, and we both knew it. "You know why you can't," I said softly, using the patient tone our parents had perfected over the years. He groaned, sinking at last back into the pillows.

"Morphine," was his next half-hearted request. This, too, I denied him. I could not risk another relapse. In truth, he broke my heart. I knew he had to be in some kind of pain, but I would not be able to live with myself if I were the cause of further harm to his mind or body, both of which were clearly in a state of ruin.

"I did not pull you from the streets to send you back again. You're lucky to be alive after that. You're lucky to be alive, regardless," I said softly, glancing at John's forlorn figure. "You will have to explain yourself, to him, at least. I've already spoken to Mummy and Father. Gregory Lestrade was with me when I found you."

I ran my hand through the dark curls I had envied in my youth, smiling sadly. He would never be the same. We both knew it. Perhaps it was for the better.

William didn't speak, simply stared intently at John as he slept, as if he could wake the good doctor with his thoughts alone. Sure enough, the calm blue eyes flickered open, hope returning to them as he saw Will awake at last.

"Sherlock," John spoke quietly, sitting up. The pale jade eyes slid from John's face to his leg, watching the limp as John made his way to the chair at the head of the bed.

I pressed a kiss to the side of William's head, standing to leave with a weak smile in John's direction. He looked to me, panicked, his eyes begging me not to leave them alone.

"I must go. Our parents would like to know he's awake," I explained, inclining my head. I did not breathe right until the door closed after me.

He would live.


	6. Now was Not the Time

John

I never thought this would be so hard, looking into the eyes of the man I had once called a machine. Clearly, that had been so wrong. I was right, standing at his grave so many years ago. He was the most human human being I had ever known, so human it hurt. He was human, and he was vulnerable and weak and so afraid, like how he'd been when he thought I'd doubted him, in the days before he had jumped.

No...this was more raw, more real.

He was afraid of me, now.

"Why?" I asked, after a long silence, not sure if I was inquiring about his fear, the "suicide," or the overdose, not sure if I even wanted the answer.

"You," Sherlock answered immediately, pulling at the IV tube in his arm. I reached out, my hand enclosing around his wrist.

"Leave that in, you need the nutrients," I instructed numbly, still staring at the pale face staring back at me. This was my fault. My mind reeled, trying to comprehend what that had meant. "It's my fault you jumped, or my fault you destroyed yourself?"

Sherlock hesitated, his eyes fixed on my hand. I didn't blame him for not wanting to look at me. "Both," he finally whispered, twisting his far-too-thin wrist from my grasp. "Both," he repeated, glancing up at me as I let go. He looked away quickly, his expression ashamed. "How long?" he asked after a heavy pause, still refusing to look at me.

I swallowed, taking a moment before responding. "You've been 'dead' for three years, in the hospital for a week and a half. It's been all over the news." I was quiet for a few minutes, tears burning in my eyes, though I willed them not to fall. Now was not the time. "You were doing okay, and then you just...died. They said you gave up...How could you do that to yourself? To me? To Mycroft? How could you be so selfish?"

I let my anger take over the one thing left in my heart: love.

Now was not the time.


	7. I Hated My Job

Lestrade

"Greg, go home," Sally ordered, barging into my office. Again. Sighing, I held up a finger so I could continue my conversation in peace. Sort of. Between Sally and Mycroft, I'd never get any work done.

"I'll be there in a bit, okay? I've gotta go, people who work for me are telling me what to do. Yeah, Sally Donovan. No, don't. Yeah, thanks, Mycroft." I hung up, staring pointedly at Sally over the stack of paperwork we all knew I wouldn't do.

"Go. Home. You've been here practically twenty-four seven," Sally frowned, leaning against the side of my desk, her arms crossed like usual. "I know you're freaked, Greg, but this isn't healthy. Go home, eat something that isn't take-away, and get some sleep."

I hated when other people were right.

Grimacing, I stretched, rubbing my face. I needed a shave, too. Dammit. "He's awake, John's with him, now," I explained, attempting to sort through to the more important files I could pawn off on someone.

Some days, I really hated my job.

"Sir, if you don't put those down, I will taze you," Sally threatened, actually pulling out a stun gun and holding it to my cheek. While I was sure she wouldn't taze my face, other more sensitive parts of me, were definitely not safe, I knew that from experience. Sighing, I relented, pushing the papers away from myself, hands raised in defeat. Sally grinned, pulling me, chair and all, into the hallway. "I knew I could talk some sense into you," she crowed as she dumped me out of the chair.

"Still can't go home," I muttered, kicking at her ankles as I hauled myself to my feet. "I've gotta go play sharpshooter, get some of the reporters away from the hospital. They're causing disturbances."

Sally frowned, shaking her head. She didn't get it. Still. After three years, she didn't get it. I sighed, running my hand through my hair. "After everything he's done? What he did to Dr. Watson and his own brother? To you?" she scowled, narrowing her eyes. Maybe she did get it.

"Well, I'm sure I'll find out why he did it, and you'll be the first I tell, alright?" I snarked, smiling as cheerfully as I possibly could. "I'll go home tonight, no more sleeping on Dimmock's couch. Promise."

Bullshit. I'd just go to Gregson's office, he had a futon.

Appeased, Sally nodded, letting me pass. I sighed in relief when no one else stopped me on my way out. I was pretty much ready to start throwing punches.

I hated my job.


	8. Still Alive

Sherlock

Selfish.

"How could you be so selfish?"

Selfish.

Lost.

Gone.

Selfish?

I wanted it to end. Now. Still. I wanted William back. I wanted to be a child again, innocent to the world.

I wanted to kill William until he wasn't even a memory.

John could never know.

I watched him quietly, frowning as we stared each other down. I longed for the beautiful floating I'd built for myself before they'd dragged me away from the alley I'd accepted as my grave, back to being William.

John broke eye contact first, looking away with a sigh. "You should get some sleep," he said after a long pause. I could hear the exhaustion in his voice. I wanted to tell him to sleep, I wanted to tell him to leave, I wanted to tell him I was trying to kill the part of me he could never know. I wanted to tell him never to come back.

I needed him to stay.

I needed to show him William was still alive.

I wanted to, but I couldn't voice anything, I couldn't even open my mouth.

I was heavy, so heavy, too difficult to even blink, to difficult to open my eyes. I managed to wrench them open them, barely catching John in the act of fiddling with the sedatives.

Sleepy anger raged through me as my eyes drifted slowly shut again, locking me in the one place I didn't want to be, the one place where I was still William.

Sleep was the one thing now I truly hated.

Fear.

Terror.

Dreams.

No amount of miracles could save me, not now. Not here. I needed to leave, but not even my mind would obey me.

Not now.

Not ever.

I had truly lost control.

As I sank into the Nothing, fear overcame me, dragging me down.

Fear.

Irrational.

Gripping.

Paralyzing.

What if John was gone when I woke up?

What if Sherlock was gone when I woke up?

What if William was gone?

What if there was nothing left?


	9. He Used To Be So Beautiful

John

 

I shouldn’t have done that. I rocketed to my feet, pain shooting through my leg. The look I’d seen right before he’d closed his eyes stayed in my mind, seared into my brain. He was afraid. I understood now. He wasn’t afraid of me. He was afraid of whatever he saw in his dreams. I thought it would make me feel better. I was wrong. Again. I just felt sick.

 

Guilt cleaving and turning my stomach, I turned, a hand clasped over my mouth. It was either the trash bin or the toilet. Quickly, I chose the latter, rushing into the bathroom that Sherlock wasn’t strong enough to use on his own yet. Somehow, the vomiting helped, the taste as bitter as my shame. He’d said it himself, it was my fault he’d jumped. My fault he’d done this to himself. I threw up again and again, mostly pure acid. There wasn’t much in my stomach to expel. I knew I needed to get up and sleep, get up and eat, but the thought of doing anything made me heave again, and again when I realized that if I left, he’d be alone. I had no clue how long he’d been alone.

 

He shouldn’t ever be alone again.

 

Hate, pity, guilt, anger.

 

Four emotions really seemed like four too many now. I understood, finally, why he’d been the way he was. Sentiment brought pain, and we’d both had enough.

 

However.

 

He didn’t come home. He destroyed himself, instead. He knew where I was. He knew I wanted that one last miracle.

 

Miracle. Ha.

 

We were running out of miracles.

 

At least I’d stopped retching. That was a fucking plus. Rinsing out my mouth didn’t take the acrid taste off of my tongue. As I flicked off the disgusting fluorescent light, the door opened, Molly’s head peeking around the edge. A new pang of guilt. ran through me at my first look of her in two years.

 

She was blonde. Blonde. Really, that was the most unexpected bit. Gone were the fluffy kitten jumpers and broaches. She’d traded them for a pair of close-fitting jeans and a black turtleneck. The only time I’d ever seen her in black was the infamous Christmas party.

 

“I heard he was back. I didn’t think he’d be...that bad,” she finished lamely, her eyes glued to his sunken face, his pale, scarred arms lying pathetically on the thick blankets. “He used to be so beautiful,” she whispered. I looked away. She sounded like she might cry, and as sympathetic as I was, I had no desire to offer comfort. “Is he going to be…” She trailed off, shifting into a silence I was grateful for.

 

“He’ll never be okay, not like he used to be. It was a heroin overdose,” I said venomously, scowling at the unconscious husk of what used to be an astounding mind of a man. Molly squeaked softly, pulling me into a hug. I could feel her tears through my shirt, and the realization hit me.

 

She knew.

 

She’d known all along.

 

I pushed her away, aware of the tears making angry tracks down my own face. “You knew,” I spat, stepping closer until I had crowded her against the wall. Keeping my voice low, I accused, “You knew he was alive and you didn’t tell me. You knew he was alive, and you kept that bastard a secret from me.”

 

“Only at first, I swear,” she wailed, hiding her face in my hands She was afraid of me, too. I didn’t feel sick this time. Just angry. “He asked for help, and I helped, but he stopped contacting me once he got out of England, I thought he really died, I didn’t know! I’m sorry!”

 

Guilt was popular nowadays.

 

Innocence was dead.

 

I sighed, gently pulling Molly away from the wall and into my chest. It wasn’t her fault. Sherlock had used her, like always, and, like always, I was picking up the pieces. This time, though, I couldn’t put the pieces back together. I fisted my hand in her shirt, my own body shaking. I could barely feel her arms sliding around me, rubbing my back as I cried. When the sensation registered, it sent a fresh wave of pain through me, tears now flowing freely.

  
I knew what had to be done.


	10. How Could I Judge Him?

Mycroft

 

I didn’t know what I had expected. Certainly not this. I had never seen John Watson cry. Not even at the funeral. Not even as he gave the eulogy. Not one single tear had left his eyes.

**  
**

Fear, then, had struck me, not only for William, but for John Watson, for their souls. Looking in through the window in the door, that same fear turned my blood to ice. I allowed a few more minutes of comfort that would never have been accepted from me before I entered. John stepped away from the mortician, as though he’d been burned. “He’s asleep,” he said thickly, dragging a hand across his face to hide the evidence of his shame.

**  
**

How could I judge him?

**  
**

I moved aside to let Ms. Hooper out, keeping my eyes on William to give John a moment to himself.

**  
**

He needed William as much as William needed him. They would heal better together. At home.

**  
**

God will it.

**  
**

“We need to talk,” I said, finally looking back at John.

**  
**

“Yeah, we do,” he muttered angrily. “He’s not coming back to Baker Street. Keep him. I don’t want him there when he’s...I can’t. He’s worse than dead right now, and I can’t help him. I’m not sure I want to. He did this to himself,” John said calmly, his eyes betraying the pain his voice hid. I simply nodded.

**  
**

How could I judge him?

**  
**

He was right.

**  
**

“Understood, Dr. Watson,” I said, unable to keep the ice from my voice. I turned my gaze to the EKG, settling into a mask of emotionless calm. “I shall oversee his detox, then have him transferred to a rehabilitation facility until he is clean. From there, he will be moved to a discreet institution. It is what is best for him at this time.”

**  
**

Wrong.

**  
**

John nodded, shouldering past me roughly on his way out. I couldn’t be sure if he would return or not. My heart sunk, freezing solid in my chest as I looked back to William.

**  
**

His eyes were open. A tear traced down his cheekbone.

**  
**

He’d heard us.

**  
**

Shit.

****  



	11. I Thought I Knew Him Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's eulogy for Sherlock

John

 

 

This was more difficult than anything I’d ever done.

 

_Keep it together._

 

_Do not break. Do not break._

 

_Do not let them see you cry._

 

I took my place at the podium, next to the picture someone had snapped of him, grinning in the sunlight. It had to have been taken a few years before I met him. I’d never seen him smile like that.

It was so innocent and happy.

I cleared my throat, taking deep breaths.

_Here we go. Loud and clear, Watson._

“We all like to say we knew him best. In the case of Sherlock Holmes, however, it’s hard to say if anyone knew him at all. Even me.”

_So far, so good. Bit morbid._

__

_Don’t you dare cry._

__

“It’s hard to say you knew someone best when you had no idea what went through their mind. I used to call him the most insensitive person I’d ever met.  
  
 _“You MACHINE!”_

__

_Shut up._

__

“I never realized how much actually got to him. A lot went down right before his death. I would never have imagined it would ever affect him the way it did. I never understood how much he cared about what people thought of him.”

_Machine._

__

_You might as well have just pushed him._

__

“He called me from that rooftop. He called me to tell me that he created Jim Moriarty for his own entertainment. He told me to tell the world. I don’t believe it. Jim Moriarty was a real person, and he was a murderer. Because of Jim Moriarty, Sherlock isn’t here with us anymore.”  
  
 _Because of you._

__

_Shut up._

__

“We all like to say we knew him best. I know I thought I did. The truth is, I knew nothing. The last thing I said to his face was one of the cruelest things anyone could say to him, and I said it in anger. I don’t regret much in life, but this will weigh on my soul forever.”

_“You MACHINE!”_

_“Leave a note when?”_

_“SHERLOCK!”_

_Don’t break._

“I thought I knew him best. I thought he didn’t care. I was beyond wrong. Sherlock Holmes cared more than anyone, and no one knew him enough to see. I called him a machine, but in truth, he was the most human out of all of s. He has no idea how much of an impact he’s made. He never will. I think that’s the saddest part out of this. After saving my life, I never got to save his.”

_“Let me through, he’s my friend.”_

_  
Sherlock._


	12. Vatican Cameos

John

 

Fuck.

I didn’t know what was worse, the thought of Sherlock being broken like that, where I couldn’t help him, or the thought of him in a fucking mental hospital. They were both shit options, but the “institution” really was best for him.

Somehow, I ended up in Baker Street. I didn’t know how I got there or how long it took me...anything. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to breathe properly.

Nothing had physically changed, but the air felt charged somehow, as if the flat knew he was alive. My words hung in the silence, echoing like some cliche voice-over in a film. I knew if Sherlock asked to come home, to my face, I wouldn’t be able to refuse, but I had to pretend I’d be able to, or I’d lose the little sanity I had left.

That thought seemed funny for some reason, and before I knew it, I was laughing, collapsing on the floor, my body shaking. After a few minutes, I was unable to tell if I was laughing or crying. Maybe it was both.

Hell if I knew.

By the time I’d stopped shaking, darkness had fallen over both the sky and my mood. I didn’t see the point of getting up, so I pulled myself into a ball, my arms around my head, praying for sleep.

Sleep never came. I lied awake for hours, watching the sky lighten.

Wait.

I bolted upright, straining to hear the almost imperceptible noise.

There.

Again.

Creak.

Mrs. Hudson was in Scotland, there was no way she’d be here. Besides, even she moved faster than that.

The next thing I was aware of was the cold metal of my gun, my hand wrapped securely around it.

Huh.

I didn’t even remember where I’d hidden it.

It was easy to slip back into an old stance, the gun aimed solidly at the door.

“Vatican cameos,” I whispered ruefully, my finger on the trigger. For once, my hands weren’t shaking. It was almost funny. Almost.

I held my breath as the door opened, the “intruder” leaning heavily on the doorjamb. I gasped, the gun hitting the floor in slow-motion.

“John,” I heard in the familiar, raspy baritone that had stalked my dreams for three years. I could see a smile in the darkness before he slumped over. I slid forward, catching him before he hit the floor. Greg was right, he was weightless. I took slow breaths, trying to keep the hysterics from returning.

**  
**“Sherlock,” I murmured, brushing the dark curls from his face, “what have you done?”


	13. Not As Your Friend

Sherlock

 

****

_Hot._

__

_Too hot._

__

_Dying._

__

_Blankets._

__

_Soft._

I groaned deeply, the sound resonating in my chest, attempting to throw the blankets from my body. They were too soft, too heavy, too hot.

Hushed voices from the next room stilled, as if noise had not been expected from me.

_“He’s not coming back.”_

__

_“Keep him.”_

__

_“I don’t want him.”_

__

_“YOU MACHINE!”_

__

_Was I human enough now?_

As I continued in my struggle with the blankets, John peered into my room, coming to my aid with a sigh.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly, brushing his hand over my brow. “You should be in a hospital...or a casket. Mycroft convinced me to let you stay until you’re not...for a few weeks, anyway. Don’t expect mercy. Don’t expect pity. This is your fault. You did this to yourself. I will take care of you, though. As your doctor,” he clarified, “not as your friend.”

_Stop touching me._

__

_Too hot._

__

_Stop._

__

_Ringing in my ears make it stop._

__

_COLD._

__

_Wet._

__

_Make it stop._

Gasping, I lashed out, my elbow colliding with the porcelain of the bathtub, my nails slicing into something soft. I could hear screaming, I could hear yelling, I could hear splashing.

_Make it stop._

__

Hands wrapped around my wrists, restraining, gripping tightly.I twisted, trying to escape to no avail.

_Screaming._

__

_Loud._

__

_Too loud._

__

_Make it stop._

__

_Weight._

__

_Too much._

__

_Getoffmedon’ttouchmemakeitstopstopstopstopstopstopstop_

“STOP!”

“Sherlock, you’re fine, relax, hey, hey, hey, John, get OUT!”

Lestrade.

The screaming stopped as a set of hands pulled away. I could hear a loud wooden slam. The door. The mirror shook with the force of it.

_Too loud._

I opened my eyes, not quite sure when they had closed. Struggling to free myself, I twisted, raising my knee into the solid figure leaning over me.

Lestrade.

I relaxed, forcing myself to still. Once I’d managed to seem calm for more than a few seconds, the hands moved, probing gently into my hair.

_Painmakeitstop_

__

_No._

Pain was good, pain was grounding. I focused, forcing my heart rate to slow enough to notice the rest of my surroundings.

I was naked, in a freezing bathtub, with a clothed Lestrade.

It wasn’t the first time.

“I’m fine,” I protested, my voice sending shivers of pain down my throat. It would seem I had been the one screaming. Lestrade shook his head, leaning back.

“You had a pretty high fever. If we didn’t get you cooled off, you could have risked brain damage. You had a fit as soon as you touched the water.”

_Cold._

__

I nodded, letting my gaze shift downwards as he gently washed my hand, removing the blood in my fingertips.

“We won’t hurt you on purpose,” Lestrade said carefully, tugging his shirt off and flinging it to the floor, “but if you’re freaked out or in pain or scared, or anything, you have to tell us. We don’t know what’s going on in your head. You can’t just lash out, you hurt John. You hurt yourself.”

_Guilt._

__

I nodded, allowing him to massage shampoo into my scalp. John’s shampoo. The smell was relaxing familiar, safe.

_Cold._

__

_Freezing._

I shivered, leaning into Lestrade. Somehow, the touch was fine, it was okay. He was warm, a comforting contrast to the icy water.

“He doesn’t want me here,” I murmured, wincing as the washcloth scraped over a healing scar on my back, the wound barely a week old.

“Sherlock, it’s fine, he wants you here, it’s your home.”

_Wrong._

__

_So wrong._

__

“Don’t lie to me, I heard him say it.”

  
I’d heard it all.


	14. Seeing the Scars

John

 

****

He was asleep again. Whatever Greg had said, it worked, at least enough to get Sherlock calmed down. It had to have been the water that set him off. He’d been fine while I’d carried and stripped him. He hadn’t even noticed.

Seeing the scars and counting his ribs might have been even worse than waiting for him to wake up. Knowing he’d starved, knowing the pain he’d had to have been in, it nearly killed me. I didn’t know what was worse, the whip scars or the bullet holes. I’d see it forever.

His future wasn’t my problem anymore. I repeated the thought to myself as I trudged upstairs, knowing I wouldn’t manage sleep. Honestly, I just wanted to get away from Greg and Mycroft and their constant mutterings.

At least Mycroft wasn’t staying the night. Greg had declared upon arrival that he was taking a forced vacation from work and didn’t want to be stalked by Donovan. I was torn between wanting to call bullshit and understanding completely. Either way, he was on the sofa and was clearly not going to leave.

Getting ready for bed had been the easy part, the mechanical movements, etched in muscle memory. It was like nothing was wrong. Getting to sleep was the hard part. Every time I tried closing my eyes, I saw the raised lines marring the alabaster skin. Molly was right, he used to be beautiful, but he might never be again. He’d always have those reminders of pain and torture littering his body like they had a right to be there.

I’d almost managed sleep when I heard the creaking of the staircase, the noise that had come to bring Sherlock home. Quickly, I curled up, pretending to be fast asleep. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with Greg. I heard the door open, and then…

Sherlock.

An arm far too thin to be anything but his wound it way over my chest, and the rest of his emaciated body pressed against me. I could feel that his fever had gone down, even through our shirts and the blanket. My heart and resolve broke. as his breathing slowed to match mine, and I realized he was asleep.

I didn’t move for fear of waking him. He needed it, and I was afraid he’d panic if he didn’t wake up on his own. I let myself relax, slipping into sleep. I needed it, too.

There were so many choices to make.

Now was not the time.

 


	15. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated in a while. I'll be updating a lot more after the eighth.

Lestrade

 

I was furious. John was not. Sherlock was asleep. Well, now. Wasn’t that just fucking dandy?

“You can’t just let him come up there!”

“I didn’t fucking let him go up there, you did! I let him stay!”

“You shouldn’t have!”

“I was asleep!”

“So was I!”

“ _SHUT UP_!”

John and I froze, our heads snapping to the door. Sherlock leaned against the frame, glaring at us. John looked back at me, scowling. Fuckity great. Everything was my fault, wasn’t it? I threw my hands up in defeat, dropping onto the sofa.

“Sherlock, sit down. We have things to discuss. We’re going to talk, you and I, and no one is leaving until we’re done. You have options here, and you need to choose one,” John said calmly, still glaring at me. Slowly, Sherlock moved through the room, lowering himself into his chair. For a moment, it was easy to believe things were normal again. Then again, it was just as easy to remember that things would never again be normal. Even for us.

“There’s the original plan, where you go with Mycroft for detox, then to rehab and a facility afterwards until he releases you. Option two, you go detox with Mycroft, go to rehab, then the facility, and I will be the one to release you.. Option three...you detox here, go to rehab, then come back, but _I_ will be in charge until a therapist decides you’re ready to make your own decisions. With option three, if you refuse to do something either your therapist or I tell you to do, or you lie to me, or you leave the flat without my express permission, you will go to the facility. It’s your choice.”

I’d seen John like this before, seen him become Captain Watson instead of Doctor Watson, but never to this extent. He even managed to mask the pain. Almost. If I was going to be honest with myself, the command tone was pretty hot. No. Ew. Gross. Abort mission. I must have made a face, because John and Sherlock were glaring at me.

“I don’t need rehab, I’m fine,” Sherlock said quietly, turning his attention back to John. I couldn’t help but laugh. God, he was anything but fine. I could see him coming apart at the seams, and he’d never be fine again. We all knew it.

“If you refuse to go to rehab, then you and I will go out right now, find a cab, and you’ll go straight to Mycroft’s facility, and you won’t be coming back,” John said plainly. A shock of pain ran through my spine at the look on Sherlock’s face. That kind of fear...he’d never get over that. He nodded slowly, leaning back. John turned to look at me pointedly. Message taken. I stood, stretching on my way to the kitchen. We were all hungry, anyway.

 **  
**Too bad I was a shit cook.


	16. Home

_Falling, always falling._

__

_Then running._

__

_John. Gunshots._

__

_Jumping._

__

_Pain._

__

_John?_

__

_Nonononononono._

__

_Not John, no._

__

_Blood, so much blood._

__

_No._

__

_Not good enough not fast enough no._

__

_Yelling._

__

Awake.

__

Soaking, I pushed John’s blanket away from me. Everything was drenched in sweat, my sweat. No blood. I breathed in relief, jumping as the noise came again. Yelling. John. Lestrade.

The stairs were difficult. I slipped twice, going faster than I had going up. It was easier to go fast now, momentum carrying me when I could barely carry myself.

_Silence._

__

_When did I sit?_

“...Options…”

_Static._

I could feel my mouth moving, could hear my voice, but there were no words, just static that seemed alien only to me.

“Are you even listening?”

_Angry._

__

I blinked hard, shaking my head. I needed a hit so badly. My arm itched, it hurt, the pain sending waves over my entire body, but I refused to curl up in defeat. I couldn’t let him know how bad it was, how bad I was. I couldn’t let him know I was losing my war.

“Sherlock…”

_Softer voice. Pity. Frustration. Sadness._

__

_This was my fault._

“No matter what, Sherlock, you’re going to rehab,” John murmured, standing up. I flinched as he raised a hand, not quite knowing the reason why.

_Wrong. John was patient, John was kind._

__

He started to withdraw, but I leaned forwards, my hair barely skimming his hand. He’d played with it, brushed it, cleaned it in the hospital, stroked it like he did now. It was calming.

Comforting.

“Fine,” I murmured, pulling away.

I would go and I would stay and I would come home.

_Home was real._

 

_Home was beautiful._

  
_Home was John._


	17. Truthfully

John

 

He agreed. He actually agreed. I resisted the urge to hug him, settling instead on sliding a hand through the soft curls.

_Oh, my god, the man was a cat_. I coughed to hide my laughter as he sighed, nuzzling into my hand. “You need a haircut,” I said sadly, pushing his hair away from his face. “I can-”

I broke off as the smoke alarm began screaming, smoke spewing from the kitchen. By the time I’d pulled the extinguisher from the wall and made it to the source of the fire, Greg had beat it into submission with my last good fucking towel and was dumping charred rubble onto plates. In retaliation, I aimed the nozzle at his face and sprayed, leaving him standing there looking stupid.

When I returned to Sherlock, he was laughing so hard he wasn’t making a sound. He only laughed harder when I sprayed him, as well. It was a good sound, a good feeling, one I hadn’t heard in years. It was hard to be pissed at anyone when he was here, laughing, acting like the Sherlock I knew, the one no one else had been privy to.

Honestly, I was just glad he didn’t scream when I touched him.

“Back to what Greg and I were arguing about...you can’t use the stairs by yourself. You could have fallen, Sherlock. I’m switching with Greg, he’ll be up in my room and I’ll be on the sofa,” I said softly, putting the extinguisher away. “If you need something, tell us. That’s why we’re here. To help you. You need to ask before you go up or down the stairs...and don’t eat anything Greg makes. Smile, take it, say thank you, but it’s probably suitable for charcoal. I’ll make a proper breakfast in a bit.” Sherlock nodded, accepting everything I said. I thought, I hoped, he was finally ready to admit he wasn’t fine. Or that he needed help. Even if he was only admitting it to himself.

“Breakfast,” Greg announced, handing me a plate of rubble and Sherlock a bowl of dry Cheerios. _Prat_. Glaring at them playfully, I moved into my own chair, picking at the less-burnt pieces of egg.

To my surprise, Sherlock ate all he was given and was already eying his violin. “I kept it tuned,” I spoke mildly, fetching it for him. I could see his surprise at the condition of the instrument. I’d taught myself to play on the much shabbier copy I kept under my bed, so that nights when I woke craving the sound of a violin, I’d have a real, almost tangible shadow of Sherlock’s music. I’d scared Mrs. Hudson the first few nights I played, those first few months after he’d fallen. We’d cried together, then never speak of it again.

The first two weeks had been the hardest. I’d hit Greg four times, punched Mycroft at the funeral, and lost my job. Twice. Sarah stopped offering it back after the sixth month mark. I asked for it again only three weeks ago, finally ready to move on with my life. I’d tactfully removed all traces of evidence that I’d been looking for a new flat, something I could afford on my own. Something like what I’d been living in before Sherlock.

The music fell from my ears as he began to play, the notes drowning in the coldness left behind. Before Sherlock. Before the war. It was almost funny to imagine myself anywhere but there and here. Truthfully, I’d almost enlisted again.

  
Truthfully, I was still considering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, guys. I'll have things updated more rapidly now.


	18. Start to Make it Better

_Perfection._

__

_Preservation._

__

_Use._

__

The Stradivarius was just as I remembered. Polished, tuned, clean, beautiful.

Grasping the bow, I stood, taking my usual place by the window. I didn’t think, my hands already playing a song, a tune trapped in my memory. I couldn’t place it, or where I knew it, until it hit me like a train, like the fists of the men who had captured me. It had played at my funeral. John chose it. It was calming, protecting, promising.

I could see the tears welling up in his eyes, like that day I had heard them in his voice. Like that day, no tears fell, held back by sheer will.I kept playing, a tear of my own falling down my cheek.

_Falling._

__

_Pavement._

__

_Fear._

I nearly crumpled from the force of my memories, but still I played. I kept my eyes on John’s, unable to hear anything.

Unable to feel.

Unable to smell.

Unable to taste.

Nothing existed but the way he looked at me.

Vaguely, I registered his mouth moving. Not speaking, singing.

I still heard nothing, but I could feel again. I could feel his pain, the pain we shared. I could feel the pain the same way I felt it when his voice broke That Day, the way I could feel it when he spoke for me, the way I could feel it when I slept, barely alive.

I reeled back, the violin nearly falling from my hands.

_Vatican cameos._

__

_Fear._

__

_Shock._

__

_Emotion. Locked away, breaking through the dam._

__

_Locked away, so many years ago._

__

_Locked away with William._

__

_Shocking._

__

_Like a wave._

__

_Terror._

__

_Hate._

__

_Fear._

__

_Love._

I could hear it, now. I knew the song. The words. The emotion.

 **  
**“Hey, Jude.”


	19. My Heart Already Had

John

 

There was no way to describe the look he gave me. Fear didn’t cover it. Neither did understanding. Confusion described the look on Greg’s face well enough, but it still paled in comparison to Sherlock, especially when he let his most prized possession fall to the floor.

 

Moving slowly, I approached him, lifting the instrument back to the desk. “Sher?...” I asked quietly, a steadying hand on his arm. I could tell that something had him shaken, even before I noticed the steady stream of water flowing down his cheeks. On impulse, I let my hand slide into his, pulling him, leading him into his bedroom. To my surprise, he didn’t object, allowing me to sit us on his bed. I pulled his head to my chest, leaning back into the pillows. This time, I could feel him crying, his entire body shaking like it could shatter into a million pieces.

 

It felt like my heart already had.

 

It was hours later that the tears finally stopped. Our breathing had become synchronized, and eventually, Sherlock fell asleep. Carefully, I drew the still-sweaty blanket over us, making a mental note to wash it as soon as possible.

 

It shocked me how earlier, as I was putting him in the bath, he’d been afraid, and now, he was perfectly content to fall asleep in my arms, curled into me. I knew it would be different after he woke up, but for now, I’d take it. I’d take all I could get.

 

I couldn’t help but wonder what he was dreaming of. He looked peaceful, youthful, as if ten years had been knocked off of his life. I hoped he wasn’t caught in the throes of a nightmare. I could always prescribe him some Prazosin. I might still have some upstairs. I assumed Sarah knew what was going on. She hadn’t called. She’d gotten back into the habit of checking on me, making sure I wasn’t stealing pills, rolling up my sleeves to check my wrists...I’d had to go to therapy a few times to reassure her that I was capable of working near prescription drugs. I’d call when Sherlock wasn’t asleep on me. Greg was here, he could handle Sherlock for a few hours every couple of days. That’s why he was here, after all. To help me. To help Sherlock. I knew Mycroft was paying rent, at least Sherlock’s part. He’d been paying mine, too. I never cared, even when I wanted to kill him. Let the bastard spend his money. The only reason I hadn’t gone after him was because I had no clue if his parents had anyone else. I’d seen them at the funeral, alone and almost forgotten in the background.

 

God, I needed to piss. Thankfully, Sherlock was sleeping hard enough for me to slide out from under him. When I was finished, I made the call to Sarah, not knowing when I’d get another chance.

 

“Sarah? It’s John,” I said, hoping I sounded normal, as if I hadn’t just had an emotionally exhausting day.

 

“John. Hi. I heard the news, wanted to give you some time to adjust. How is he?” If she was angry, she hid it well. She almost sounded sincere. I had no idea how she knew why I was calling. Maybe she didn’t.

 

“I, er, yeah, he’s...shit. We’re both shit. Greg’s here, but...I don’t know when I’ll be able to come in. He skipped out on the hospital and came here. He’s sleeping now. I don’t think he’ll ever be…” My voice trailed off, brittle around the edges.

 

“Himself?” Sarah offered, her frown nearly audible.

 

“Yeah. Himself. Once he gains a bit of weight, gets used to having human contact again, we’re taking him to rehab until he’s good to come home and be left alone without incident.”

 

Sarah was quiet for a few moments before voicing what I didn’t want to request. “What prescriptions does he need?”

 

“Prazosin, vitamins A, B1, B3, D, iron, Cyproheptadine, paracetamol, and Niravam. I’ve got Greg staying here, so I might be able to spare a few hours a week, but it has to be a strict schedule, so he knows what to expect daily,” I explained.

 

“I want a log of when he takes the pills, how many you give him, and how many are left after each dose, signed off by both Sherlock and Greg. I want them kept by Greg, locked up. Do we have a deal?”

 

I agreed, and hung up, knowing exactly where she was coming from. I didn’t expect her to trust me.

 

I barely trusted myself.

 

 


	20. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late, I've been having a few life issues, but everything's going to be okay. Have an interlude!

Sherlock

 

_Seven_. 

 

Seven left, and I could go home. 

 

Seven more times washing blood from my hands.

 

Seven more times burning my clothes.

 

Seven more times pretending I was fine. 

 

Seven left, and I could sleep through the night. 

 

_Seven_.

 

Seven more black marks, eroding the humanity I'd learned so painstakingly.

 

Seven more threads of the web that had killed me.

 

Seven more of the threads that had killed John Watson.

 

After all, a suicide kills two people. So the pastor at the church I slept at last night had told Me. A suicide always kills two people. 

 

There might not be anything left to go home to. 

 

My suicide had been fake, but if John snapped, would his be?

 

Seven left, and I would know.

 

_Seven_.

 

 


	21. Sorry!!!

I'm sos orry for no updates, but they are coming soon. I just moved and lost all of my hand-written chapters. Expect an update within a week or two!


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